Nautilus Island's hermitheiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;her sheep still graze above the sea.Her son's a bishop. Her farmeris first selectman in our village,she's in her dotage.

only skunks, that searchin the moonlight for a bite to eat.They march on their soles up Main Street:white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fireunder the chalk-dry and spar spireof the Trinitarian Church.

I stand on topof our back steps and breathe the rich air--a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pailShe jabs her wedge-head in a cupof sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,and will not scare.